


texted.

by jamesraoulsilva



Category: 00silva - Fandom, James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, memorial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:15:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesraoulsilva/pseuds/jamesraoulsilva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first text comes early in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	texted.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strange_h3arts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strange_h3arts/gifts).



8th January, 2011  
The first text comes early in the morning.  
Bond wakes up with a groan and reaches for his phone on his nightstand. He blinks a few times before he can directly look into the bright light radiating from his phone and sees that it's 5:38 A.M. He opens the text message.  
 _._  
That's it. Just a full stop. Blocked number. Bond groans again, throws the phone besides his bed and covers his eyes with his arm. He can't get back to sleep anymore -- he's lucky to get a few hours of undisturbed sleep every night. Silently he curses the mysterious messager and gets into the shower.

23th March, 2011  
He has long since forgotten about the text, thinking he was the unfortunate victim of a spam attack, when he gets a second text. This time it's when he's having dinner in Moscow with quite a charming lady. He excuses himself and checks his phone.  
 _Wonderful company._  
He freezes but waits a couple of minutes before looking around the restaurant. He knocks back the last of his outstanding scotch and takes his leave. He stands up, buttons up his suit jacket and saunters back to his hotel. Once he gets there, he listens to the recording of the bug he placed in his room. There's nothing.

24th March, 2011  
When he gets out of the shower he sees his phone blinking. His fingers curl into a fist and he breathes in agitatedly but ignores it and first makes his way downstairs to have breakfast. He eats alone, at a table in the corner of the large ballroom that has been transformed into a dining area. With haste he finishes his toast and the moment he stands on the soft carpet in his room again he reaches for his phone.  
 _She wasn't good enough?_  
He has to restrain himself not to throw his phone against the wall.

11th April, 2011  
He's in the shooting range when his phone vibrates in the pocket of his standard-issue blue training pants. He keeps firing shots until the clip is empty. Contently, he looks at his target; almost all the bullets hit the head or the torso. He has already returned to the locker room, changing back into his suit, when he remembers the text.  
 _Don't you miss me?_  
Bond clenches his jaw and thinks. There is no one he would be capable of missing, save one person who is long dead. That afternoon he buys a new phone with a new number.

30th June, 2011  
"Jesus," Bond mutters. "Sorry? Here's your change," the Sainsbury's cashier says. Bond walks away with his plastic bag in one and phone in the other hand, leaving a bewildered cashier behind.  
 _I'm not so easily get rid of._  
Bond huffs but still gets his phone protected for private and blocked numbers by an acquaintance of his. He tries to avoid Q branch since -- he tries to avoid Q branch.

26th July, 2011  
"Please turn off all electronic devices." A ladies' voice resounds through the airplane and Bond closes his laptop and reaches for his pocket. He wants to turn it off when he sees he has a message. From a number he doesn't recognise.  
 _Let's play hide and seek._  
His heart skips one beat and he keeps staring at the screen for a moment before he puts the phone in airplane mode. The moment he gets back in London he gets someone to trace the source for him through the GPS signal. It leads him to a waste container just outside the entrance to Churchill's bunker. He slams his flat hand on top of it before returning to his apartment.  
That evening, he goes out drinking, but can't shake the feeling there is someone watching him. The next morning Bond checks his apartment for bugs or cameras, but finds nothing.

9th September, 2011  
He tries to forget, but can’t escape the fact that the texts keep occupying his mind, at night, when it’s cold outside and only the darkness in his apartment is a witness of his open eyes. Neither drink nor company help to ease his mind, or allow him to sleep. So he drags himself from day to night, pub to club, drink to drugs and he survives. On one of those nights when he is walking back to his apartment, he gets his phone out of his pocket and his heart jumps in his chest, despite himself.  
 _Are you played out?_  
He reads it with someone else’s voice. And that makes him turn around and go back to his drinking.

2nd March, 2012  
He’s driving home from Vauxhall Cross, avoiding the highways, crossing the speed limits on London’s back streets. He enjoys the driving, and he’s humming tunelessly while tapping on the wheel of the Aston Martin. He turns into a one-way street and sighs when he sees a lorry obstructing the road. He wants to put the gear in reverse but sees another car pull up behind him. He mutters curses under his breath and waits. After a while he feels a vibration in the inner pocket of his jacket. It’s a text and it’s from a number he doesn’t know. It’s a different one from last time and he realises that he actually remembered the phone numbers. He curses again and opens the text.  
 _Happy birthday._  
He blinks a couple of times. No one besides M knows when it’s his birthday, and he isn’t close with anyone in his personal life. Everyone who once knew, is now dead or gone. The agitation is building in his chest and he grips the wheel until his knuckles are white. Finally he can drive again and he floors the gas.

28th October, 2012  
It’s a dreary afternoon and Bond has just installed himself with a glass of Macallan and a pack of cigarettes in an armchair. He rarely smokes because he is starting to notice the effect it has on his body and his condition, but when he does he makes a special occasion. He is just about to light the first when his phone vibrates. He sighs and mutters “fuck” when he sees what it says.  
 _Do the math, darling._  
Bond gets up and paces up and down. He checks the date the text was sent, the time, and repeats that with all the previous texts. He sits down again, and rubs the nape of his neck, growing agitated. He is so close to the revelation of this mystery. Suddenly he remembers his math teacher, or rather one of the classes he rarely attended. ‘You are making the solution for the problem much too difficult. Think simple.’ Then, the last piece of the puzzle fits in his mind. There are nine texts. He is forever connected with the number nine in Bond’s mind. So he texts back, even though he can’t believe it, and a part of him is screaming to forget, to not allow himself to fall for this, this… it must be a trick. But even the slightest possibility is enough.  
 _where_  
The answer is immediate.  
 _Where the dead are praised._

Ten minutes later he pulls up in front of the memorial wall.

***

Silva has been pacing up and down for a while now, waiting for James to figure out the riddle. He desperately hopes he hasn’t overestimated the agent. It had been a while since they’d last seen each other, and people change. He himself is the living proof of that. He shivers in his coat and stands still in front of his own name. It brings back memories, so many memories. He touches the wall, let his calloused fingers glide over the smooth stone. He lowers his hand and looks up to the sky. It’s a grey day and autumn is slowly sliding into winter. The wind whistles in his ears, making a mess of his hair. He brushes the blond strands out of his eyes and shivers again. His long Burberry coat flutters around his legs. He’s so absorbed in his own world that he doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching. Footsteps he once knew so well, fitted perfectly with his own rhythm.

He startles when he hears his voice. “Storm’s coming.” Silva slowly turns around and takes a shaky breath. He looks at the agent’s feet, then slowly looks up to his face. He doesn’t remember what he hoped for this moment to feel like, but this… he is met with cold resentment. He swallows before he simply answers, “yes.”

Bond is deadpanning him and Silva mirrors his look. The agent is standing with his hands in his pocket and is holding his chin high. Silva curses inwardly. This is not how he had wanted to start this meeting. He had wanted to... wanted to... – that was not important now. What was important, was how he was going to fix this.

He doesn't get the chance to do so, as Bond speaks, with a flat voice. “Well, this is a surprise.” He pauses and thoughtfully takes a few steps forward, not bothering to take his hands out of his pocket. There are a couple of meters between them and Silva is standing with his back to the wall.

Silva opens his mouth to speak but closes it again and clenches his jaw. He clasps his hands together in front of him, raises a foot and let it fall down to the ground again. The sound seems to surprise James, as a shock goes through him and he drops his head.

“You,” Silva says. It sounds like a reproach, which it is.

“I, what,” Bond retorts.

“A double-oh now, hmm? I should have known.”

James' stare gets more intense but he remains silent.

“Don't you want to say something? Maybe repent for your sins? We can make this as anonymous as you like, _Mr Bond_ ,” Silva says mockingly, spreading his arms wide.

Still there is no reply, but James shifts his weight to his one leg.

“Was I useful to you in our years together? Did you work your way up easily? Are you enjoying your new job as world traveler? Enjoying all the company you keep at night?” A rough edge sneaks into his voice, which finally sparks James.

Silva hears him suck in air and then Bond is suddenly in front of his face. He pushes Silva against the wall, one arm pushing against his chest, the hand of the other arm is flat on his abdomen.

He gets smashed against the wall and the arm that was on his chest is on his throat all of a sudden, sealing off his trachea. Silva gasps for air, but Bond doesn't let go. His voice is raw when he quietly begins speaking, growing louder and louder. “For five years, I pursued every single avenue and there was not a trace of you. For a decade I've been trying to forget and now you suddenly reappear and start blaming me?!”

Silva buries his nails in the arm at his throat and slaps James' other hand away, pushing him backwards. His skin burns where James had touched him, even through multiple layers of clothing.

“I never forgot you. _Tiago_.”

The name hits him like a slap in the face and Silva's eyes glint with pain. He turns his back to James and looks hard at the name on the wall.

“James.” He tastes the name on his tongue and is not really surprised at how good it feels to finally say it out loud again. He feels James approaching him from behind.

“How could I forget you?” The words a thin whisper on the wind. Silva turns back, but does not directly look at James. He swallows and answers, “you should have forgotten me. You should have carried on with your life.”

“I tried to.” James seems surprised at his own honesty.

They remain silent for a moment.

Then James speaks again. “Why did you come back?”

Silva's short moment of softness is over and he cuts back to being painfully straightforward. “I'm here to rectify my past.”

His eyes briefly shoot towards the building behind James, which he notices. He turns away from Silva for a second and says, “you're not... going in there? What happened?”

Silva wants to turn away but James' fingers lock around his wrist.

When he looks up, James' eyes are of a ice cold blue fury and he states, “I think it's time you start explaining.”

“I don't owe you anything, James.”

“Oh, but I think you do,” James answers grimly. “For bothering me with your fucking texts for two years. Tell. Me. What. Happened.”

Silva starts laughing maniacally. When he finally calms down, he looks at James and says, “fine. I will tell you. Our beloved _Mother_ sold me out to the Chinese. For 'going out of my bounds,' she said.” He air quotes, drawling out the words.

“And when I was imprisoned, I didn't know that. So I protected her secrets, I protected England, I protected you. And for five months I rotted away in the drain of the world.”

James is expressionless. “And now you're back,” he states. “To... what. Take revenge?”

“Yes. Any moment now,” Silva mutters.

James lets go of his wrist and turns around to run towards MI6, but as he starts running the building goes up in a giant explosion. The flames are gigantic and immediate and the sound pierces their eardrums. James stops in his tracks and freezes.

He slowly turns around, with an ashen face. “You KILLED her?!” he screams.

Silva's face is contorted in a grimace as he yells back. “Of course not! How dare you say that! How dare _you_ say that! Her new favourite son!”

James bursts out in what his half sobbing, half laughter. “So you blow up her office? To show her something? To warn her? Why?”

“To show her I'm not dead. To warn her, to think on her sins.”

James starts shaking his head, pacing up and down and rubs his eyes. “I can't believe you came back,” he says when he finally stands still.

Silva looks at him, surprised. _So, he does understand..?_

It seems like they arrived at a truce. And Silva feels like it may be time to make some amends himself.

“I would understand it if you walked away now.”

James looks up and his stare is pure fire, burning right through Silva. He steps forward, burying his fingers in the expensive fabric and clutches Silva's shoulders. “When I see you, I kind of forget what I decided to do. Just like before.” James is breathing quickly.

“Can we forget,” James swallows and his voice is shrill, “can we forget what happened in the past fifteen years for a moment?”

Silva blinks rapidly and nods with tight lips.

Then James kisses him, hard, and it’s sloppy and Silva finds himself immediately moaning into it, clinging to Bond’s coat, thankful for the support. James' lips are soft and warm, albeit damaged, and he tastes salty. James buries one fist in the shoulder-length blond curls and places one hand on his jaw. Silva's tongue slips out to lick James' lips, and James lets him. He lets him. And then James lets him go and walks away.

“You _kissed_ me,” Silva says softly. His lips are still burning.

James stops. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you, you fucking idiot.”

“Then why walk away now?!”

All of a sudden, sirens roar through the streets besides them, and Silva's eyes start wandering. Then he focuses on James again.

“Come with me.”

James looks at him. “ _Lo siento, Tiago._ ” Then he turns towards MI6.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear strangehearts, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> I was playing with this idea for a while but I took too long figuring out how exactly I wanted it to be,  
> so that's why it ends with a cliffhanger-ish part, but I think I will write more, this will also of course  
> be a gift to you <3 Love you, and again; hope you liked it!
> 
> xx jamesraoulsilva


End file.
